


Justice Begins Next Door

by mousapelli



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousapelli/pseuds/mousapelli
Summary: In the aftermath of Ren's police capture, he's taken enough damage both inside and out that it's hard to even tell where reality stops and starts. Late game spoilers (end of Nijima's palace).





	Justice Begins Next Door

**Author's Note:**

> M rating for Ren getting beat up in police custody as well as sex. I've been working on this since summer, ever since Ren during the opening scene takes random notice of the camera in the interrogation room, and it somehow turned from just Ren and Futaba talking about it to a bunch of other people's reaction to the whole incident as well. 
> 
> Like the game entirely glosses over how beat up and drugged Ren was, and really that's not ok, and it's even more not ok that Ren just absorbs it as something that's all right to happen to him if it protects the others and their mission. so I wrote this.

The strangest part of the drugs they inject him with are the way they scramble time. Even before he's trying desperately shuttling back and forth between his memories and reality in front of Nijima, his mind keeps trying to take him somewhere else in the space between kicks, the Velvet Room, the attic, Mementos. One backhand bounces his head off the concrete floor and in the space before air creeps back into his winded lungs, Ren relives most of a whispered conversation with Ryuji from the night before. 

"…really ok with this?" Ryuji asks. They're tucked close together under Ren's blankets to keep the cold out, sharing Ren's pillow and whispering even though Sojiro took Futaba home hours ago. "I mean, you already had one shitty experience, and… _don't_ say it's fine."

"All right," Ren says. Ryuji's features are soft to Ren without his glasses on, as soft as his T-shirt under Ren's palm, Ryuji's heartbeat steady against his fingertips. 

"It's not fine," Ryuji hisses, as if Ren had argued. "I've seen you wake up in a cold sweat like a hundred times. It ain't right, us asking you to…" Ryuji chokes on his next words, his chest heaving under Ren's palm. He makes a helpless noise. "It doesn't always have to be you."

"It's better if it is. My life's already ruined, and all that." Ren says it lightly, even though there's a lump of ice in his chest that feels colder every time he breathes in, his fingers almost numb. 

"Shut up," Ryuji says, sounding tired, a little hurt. "Be real. Don't bullshit me."

"All right." Ren shuffles closer to Ryuji's warmth, but he drags in a sigh and his chest gets colder. The only warm spot is where his forehead presses against Ryuji's. "I'm scared. I think this is the only way, but I don't want to."

"Guess that's something." Ryuji doesn't look happier, but he smiles tiredly. "You're something all right, Renren, you're a real—"

"Piece of shit," one of the investigators is snarling when Ren comes tenuously back to reality. The cold weight in the center of his chest is where the man's foot is planted on his ribs, the numbness in his fingers from the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. "You don't get to sleep through this."

The intensity of the beating is surprising. This is how much they hate us, Ren thinks in the moments that his splintered consciousness draws back together. There's a coldness to it, the way they look at him like he's a thing, a nameless idea of "Phantom Thief" that they can finally take all their own frustrations out on. Maybe it had all been a terrible idea, what felt so fun when they were publicizing how they could outsmart the police, the government, every terrible adult. 

His mind wants to slip away so badly, reality wavering and going soft around him, but there's no telling if he'll ever be able to drag himself back if he gives in. 

"Are you listening?" Morgana demands, tail flicking behind him, ice eyes blue. He's on Ren's desk at school, no, in his bed. The cat is a weight on his ribs heavy enough that drawing a full breath is impossible. 

"What?" Ren asks. "To what?"

"What did they even give you?" Nijima mutters, and Ren digs his fingers into that reality as hard as he can, ignoring the whispers in his ear, Igor's chuckle just behind him. He hurts and that's real, the cold tabletop under his palms is real, and Navi's murmured dialogue options aren't real, but the camera in the corner is. 

There's something…no, that's not the important…

"Wake up," Nijima hisses in his ear. The circulation returning through his wrists stings like icy needles, but the rest of his body sets on fire when she pulls him to his feet. He's in Mementos, a Hua Po cackling as Agidyne lights up the slick walls along with Ren's bones. He fumbles for his mask, brain scrabbling for what resists fire, but his fingers strike only the bruised skin of his face.

"Decarabia," he mutters, relieved he still remembers something. "Null fire."

"Keep quiet," Nijima tells him, trying to bear half his weight and kick open the door. Her heels sound like gunshots on the echoing floor, the staccato bursts of Fox's AR-X; Ren closes his eyes against the way the walls keep pulsing back and forth between the sterile interrogation hallway and the inside of Okamura's spaceship, the slick stone of Kamoshida's castle. 

The parking garage is worse, if that's even a thing. It's a yawning, cavernous thing, all echoes and blind corners, the pavement biting into his knees and palms when Nijima's grip slips. Ren's head is pounding, instincts screaming at him to crouch and melt against every concrete wall and pillar. He can hear the shadows whispering in his ear, laughing at them, just out of sight, teetering on edge for a fight that never comes. He keeps reaching for a gun that isn't there, his panic cresting like a wave every time he clenches his empty hand. 

The metal of Nijima's car is cold against his cheek when she slumps him against it. Somehow she gets him into it, gets the door shut, and then materializes in the drivers seat beside Ren like a magic trick. 

"Please try not to be sick in my car," she says. 

"Cats turning into buses is an extremely widespread cognition," Ren tells her, he isn't sure why. "Among the general public."

"Right," Nijima mutters, fumbling with her keys, and then everything goes black. 

Ren comes to in Nijima's car for maybe a minute. The seatbelt tight across his chest and the streetlights streaking by the window don't make any sense, and every time he blinks, he's back in the interrogation room, back in the casino as his foot slips off the edge of the lighting and sends him into free fall, no difference between shrieking guests and honking horns. Each blink feels longer than the last, the last one feels like hours before Ren gives in and falls back into darkness. 

"Ren?"

Sojiro's face is blurry when Ren unglues his eyes. He's overslept for school, Ren thinks very distantly. He's supposed to meet his homeroom teacher and he's late for everything. 

The warmth of Sojiro's shoulder is surprising under Ren's clammy hand when Sojiro hauls him out of the car. Ren's knees threaten to buckle but Sojiro is already underneath his shoulder, taking on half his weight, the strong grip of his fingers around Ren's wrist a welcome agony. 

"I'm too old for this," Sojiro grunts, trying to get Ren up the step into the house. 

"Same," Ren sighs, head lolling against his shoulder, or maybe he doesn't make any noise at all. They have to go up one step to get into the house and the blade of pain that slices down through him rips a banshee keen out of Ren's throat that makes Sojiro shudder. 

Everything's spinning from the effort of even going the dozen steps inside. Ren notices most colors in flashes, the orange of Futaba's hair, the faded print of Sojiro's couch, the mobius black of Morgana getting underfoot. Once he's sitting on the couch, everything stabilizes into crystal clarity for a few seconds, every line on Sojiro's face, Morgana's individual whiskers, the glittering tear track down Futaba's cheek. 

Then Ren tips forward and vomits on Sojiro's hardwood floor. 

"You poor kid," Sojiro says, hand in Ren's hair. Ren is embarrassed but really it hurts too much for that, hurts even to rest his forehead on his wrists, head down between his knees. Drawing the next breath is like inhaling lava, nearly setting off another heave; there's probably nothing left to throw up anyway. 

He blacks out again after that, misses a length of time somewhere between ten minutes and summer vacation. There's a damp cloth on his forehead when he can make sense of anything again, and his school uniform jacket is gone, and Sojiro is holding a glass that looks like it's full of beer. 

"Think I've had enough," Ren slurs. 

"It's ginger ale," Sojiro says, frown etched deep. Ren reaches up for the glass, even though Sojiro has more sense then to let it go. Ren lets Sojiro tip some of it into his mouth before pushing him feebly back. "Good man." He sets the glass on the coffee table, within reach but probably out of accidental spill range. "Futaba, make him drink some more in a few minutes. He's definitely dehydrated."

"Yeah," Futaba answers, quieter than rustling leaves. 

Ren feels reality waver and braces himself, but it passes without dragging him under. 

If he sits very, very still, Ren thinks the two sips of ginger ale he's managed might stay down. His throat aches and his head burns and he really, really does not want to throw up again in the trash can sitting by his feet. Sojiro and Nijima are having a whispered argument in the kitchen, not quite far enough away to keep Ren from hearing how scared Sojiro is, even though his neurons are spread too far out to connect any sense to the words. When he turns his head, Futaba is sitting on the couch next to him, hands fisted in the cuffs of her sweater where they fall over her wrists. She's crying very, very quietly. 

"Futaba?" Ren asks, voice rasping. There's something important, right at the edge of his memory. "I'm all right."

"Yeah," Futaba says. It's like when she spoke to them from inside her closet, voice muffled. "I know. We made a plan. A perfect plan. It ran perfectly. No bugs."

Bugs, Ren remembers. That's it. "There was a camera." Ren swallows, and it hurts. "You hacked into it, didn't you?"

Futaba slides her fingers up into her hair like she's going to pull it, squeezing her eyes shut so tightly that a tear rolls down her nose and drops from the tip of it. Ren's stomach rolls, and his heart aches worse than his ribs. 

"You watched it," Ren says, wishing to be wrong. He knows he's right. "Come here." Futaba slides over, pressing hard against Ren's side. His ribs are on fire, but he gathers her in anyway, shifting her legs up over his so that she's nearly in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder. "You shouldn't have watched that."

"Someone had to!" Futaba insists, voice shrill. Her fingers clutch tightly in Ren's ruined uniform shirt. "At my relatives'…at my uncle's…" Futaba drags in a shuddering breath and tries again. "When bad stuff happened to me, nobody knew. Nobody _saw_. Someone had to see what happened to you, all of it, so you…" Futaba's voice cracks, almost unintelligible. "So you weren't alone."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Ren chokes, hugging her as best he can with his lead-filled arms. "We're ok. We'll be ok." Ren's ribs scream where Futaba presses in, and he pretends the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes is about that. 

Time still has a gelatinous quality to it, but Ren is aware of Nijima leaving, of Sojiro returning and forcing him to drink more. He asks quietly if Ren thinks anything's broken, his hand warm against Ren's temple as he pulls Ren's eyelid up to watch his pupils. 

"I can't tell if that's drugs or a concussion." Sojiro pulls his hand away, drags it over his face. He shakes his head, jaw clenching as he makes a decision. "I'm calling the clinic, I don't care what that woman said."

"Takemi-sensei," Ren mutters. Sojiro frowns, but Ren can't dredge up the words to explain that she doesn't know, but she knows enough. 

They have to peel Futaba off of Ren when Takemi arrives, and Ren wishes that he were unconscious for the poking and prodding that follows. Takemi asks him questions while she does it, and Ren can answer some of them, which seems like an improvement until she presses fingers against his ribs and his vision goes white. The verdict, aside from the obvious bruises and cuts, is two dislocated fingers, a sprained knee, some cracked ribs, and a probable concussion. 

"This is some kind of mess, little guinea pig," she sighs, sitting back. "No idea what they gave him?"

"I wouldn't want to guess," Sojiro says. He's hovering, like a grim coffee-scented vulture, but Ren thinks that's sort of nice. 

"Then I'm sad to say, no painkillers or anything else until whatever it is has had a chance to clear his system. Give it twenty-four hours." Takemi fixes Ren with a sharp stare. "You hear that?"

"Got it," Ren answers dully. He wonders if magic is off the table, but has enough sense back not to ask. 

"Concussion is likely enough that someone'll have to stay up with him. Let's get him cleaned up, though, a bath is safe enough." Takemi stands up, holding out a hand. "Think you can stand?"

Ren makes it about two centimeters off the couch before he goes back down with a wheeze of pain, all his injuries stiffened up from sitting. Once they get him up and into the bathroom, Ren kicks them both out, his dignity at an all-time low but not quiet low enough to tolerate either of them staying. He's shirtless from Takemi's examination; he shoves his pants down and leaves them where they drop. Getting in and out of the bathtub seems like an insurmountable obstacle, so Ren settles for a shower, standing as still as he can and hissing in pain as the hot water pours over his injuries. Sojiro is standing just outside the door in case Ren slips or calls. When Ren stumbles against the wall and can't help the yelp of pain, Sojiro is in the room in a second, his shirt soaked through by the time he can reach to twist the water off. 

"Oh hell," Sojiro says when he gets a good look at Ren's back. The quiet pity in his voice is almost enough to undo Ren totally, and he slumps against Sojiro so he doesn't go right to his knees on the hard tile. He closes his eyes so he doesn't see the way the towel comes away pink. 

Dried off and wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants borrowed from Sojiro, Ren tries in vain to argue that he'll be fine on the couch, but Sojiro is having none of it. He blocks the hallway bodily and points towards his bedroom until Ren heaves a sigh and trudges in the right direction. Getting into Sojiro's bed is an adventure that leaves Ren pale and sweating. No position is comfortable. He ends up on his back, close enough to the edge that if he has to throw up again, he has half a chance of rolling over and making it to the small trashcan. Morgana curls up at the end of the bed rather than on his chest, and every time Ren shifts, Morgana picks up his head, watching him unblinkingly. 

Sojiro brings in a chair from the kitchen and sits it next to the bed. He has a small television in the bedroom that he flips on. Watching it makes Ren's head pound, but when he closes his eyes, listening to it is better than the middle of the night silence. 

Ren fades in and out. When the late night detective drama melts suddenly into a ridiculous game show, Ren cracks an eye to make sure that actually happened outside of his brain. Futaba appears eventually, trudging into the room with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a superhero cape. She bangs her shin into the bedframe with a grunt, looking pale and very young without her glasses, and then crawls onto the bed in the space between Ren and the wall. 

"Ok?" Ren asks quietly. Soijiro is asleep in his chair chin slumped down on his chest. Futaba curls up like a pillbug, knees to her chest, arm under her head so that she can see Ren clearly. 

"Was back in my palace," she mutters; Ren hopes she means she dreamt it. She looks half-asleep at least, mouth pinched unhappily. "You were the sliding puzzle. Stupid Inari kept re-painting the tiles."

Ren huffs a tiny laugh, then whines at the pain of that. Futaba reaches out to grip the sleeve of his T-shirt, and with that tiny point of contact, Ren grasps at something like sleep for at least a couple hours. 

Dawn creeps in reluctantly, grey as the inside of Ren's skull. It's a relief to see morning, some visceral part of him anxious that maybe he's still in Nijima's palace, maybe it's always night there, even though morning brings a series of necessary agonies like trying to sit up and putting his feet on the floor and breathing. Changing his shirt is an abject impossibility, his chest and shoulders one massive ache so deep-seated that he can barely lift his elbows from his side, much less over his head. Futaba finds an over-sized hoodie that fits him, Ren feeling like a shady department store mannequin as they zip it onto him. 

"What's on the back of it?" he asks when he catches sight of Sojiro's raised eyebrows. 

"Don't worry about it," Sojiro tells him, unconvincing. 

"It was _limited edition_ ," Futaba screeches. 

Everything he tries to do takes three times as long as it should, up to and including the walk from Sojiro's house over to the cafe. His whole back is clammy with sweat by the time gets to the door, and he pauses there a moment, hand resting on the handle, trying to get his casual, cool leader face back on. 

That goes right to shit when Ryuji launches himself onto Ren and squeezes him tight enough to crack even unhurt ribs. 

"Ow, _fuck_ ," Ren grunts into Ryuji's shoulder. He doesn't hate it, the sharp, grinding ache a reminder of what he's gone through to keep Ryuji safe, to keep all of them safe. It wouldn't mean as much if it didn't hurt this way, Ryuji's tight hold marking the depth of his worry. 

Ryuji holds on for a long minute, and even when he peels himself off to let the others get a look at Ren, he doesn't go far. Ren is glad for the support, making it easier to hide the effort it takes to get himself into the booth. The whole time he's telling his story and the rest of them are filling in the gaps, Ryuji is quiet, watching Ren with sharp eyes. He rests his palm on Ren's thigh under the table every now and then, as if still testing that he's solid, that he's really there. 

It takes all of the energy Ren has to follow the conversation, and then some extra that he doesn't. His head is pounding by the end, hands clutching tight around his coffee cup so that no one will see them shaking. He does his best to keep it off his face, but he still sees the looks Makoto and Haru are exchanging, feels the weight of Yusuke observing him. Ann offers him a strained smile; she sees through Ren's masks more easily than the others, like Ryuji, because she's been there since the beginning. 

Ryuji doesn't even make a pretense of getting up to leave with the others, the light touch of his palm turning into a downward force, warning Ren to stay right where he is. Ren isn't sure what will happen when he tries to stand anyway, and he doesn't want the others to see him try. When it's just him, Sojiro, Futaba, and Ryuji, then he struggles to unfold himself from the booth, hissing a whine through his clenched teeth as his stiff muscles protest being unfolded. 

Ren shrugs off Sojiro's attempts to get him to come back to the house. He isn't looking forward to the stairs, for sure, but he wants to sleep in a familiar place rather than repeat the on-edge half-sleep of the night before. 

"I got him, boss," Ryuji assures. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." Sojiro snorts, and Ryuji amends, "Anything _else_ stupid. We'll go over to the baths when it opens, grab some food."

"Sure," Ren agrees, his stomach rolling at even the thought. He shuffles towards the stairs without waiting to hear what Sojiro answers, wanting only to go facedown in his bed and worried he isn't going to make it even that far. Morgana runs ahead of him, slipping up the stairs like a shadow and then peering down from the top, watching Ren's progress. 

The progress is slow; Ren has to stop halfway up and lean his shoulder into the wall just to wheeze for a minute. Ryuji appears behind him, his hand on the small of Ren's back, offering reassurance that if he tips right over backwards, Ryuji will at least break his fall. By the time Ren drops heavily onto the edge of his bed, he's sweating again, ribs aching from his labored breathing. His eyes are squeezed shut because of the way the room is spinning, but he feels his bed shift as Ryuji sits down beside him. 

"Show me," Ryuji says, voice grim. When Ren peels open his eyes, that's how Ryuji's face looks too, jaw tense, eyes sharp. When Ren doesn't answer or move right away, Ryuji's gaze turns to steel. " _All_ of it."

"I can't lift my arms," is the only argument Ren bothers to make. Ryuji isn't having it. He unzips Ren, peels the sweat-damp T-shirt off, brisk when it's obvious that no amount of gentle will be gentle enough, kneels on the floor to tug the sweatpants off. _Don't_ , Ren wants to say, but doesn't. 

Ryuji looks him over slowly, all the way up and down like he's memorizing every cut and rising bruise. Ren thinks incongruously of the first time Ryuji asked shyly to see all of him; somehow that was less embarrassing than this is. 

"Dammit, Ren," Ryuji finally says. He's still on his knees, looking up at Ren's bruised face with a snarled mix of rage and helplessness painted across his own face. "It's supposed to be _me_. I'm supposed to be your shield, I'm supposed to—" He breaks off, sagging forward until his forehead rests against Ren's thigh. "Fuck you for going where I can't follow, how fucking _dare_."

"Sorry." Ren sets his hand on Ryuji's head, fingertips rubbing down into the roughness of it. 

"No, you _aren't_ ," Ryuji insists, which, fair enough. He butts his head up against Ren's hand. "Fucking show-off. Got everybody else fooled, thinking you're so great, but I know the truth, that you don't know what the fuck you're doing. All smoke and mirrors and masks and…" Ryuji trails off as he drags in a ragged breath.

"And untested pharmaceuticals," Ren finishes. "I could go for a few more of those right now, for the record."

"Fuck's sake," Ryuji mutters. He pulls away from Ren, thumping heavily down onto his butt. "Why didn't you just heal it?"

"Been too out of it, and we didn't know what it would do with the drugs." That's not all of it, Ren realizes, it's what Futaba said too. He didn't want to magic away the marks before someone else saw them. If they're gone and nobody else saw, it would be like it never happened, like maybe he is exactly that crazy. "Maybe…I wanted you to see. So I knew it wasn't all in my mind."

He's sorry to saddle Ryuji with this shared knowledge, but not sorry enough not to choose him. It isn't the first secret the only the two of them share, and Ren doubts it'll be the last. 

Ryuji accepts all of it with a grim nod before turning his glare on Morgana, still hovering like an anxious shadow. "Well? What are you waiting for? Heal this fucking guy already, so I can knock some sense into him myself."

"Thought you'd never ask," Morgana says, standing up and strolling over to put his front paws on Ren's thigh. Ren still doesn't know if magic and drugs are a good mix, or what's still in his system, but he's sick of being in pain so he keeps his mouth shut. Morgana's ears twitch forward, the fur all along his spine standing on end. " _Diarahan_."

The spell washes through Ren like peroxide foaming over a deep cut, not very pleasant as it fizzes into corners of his insides that really shouldn't be touched. He grits his teeth through the first breathless second of it, and is just drawing his next shaky breath when Ryuji slams into him and drives it back out of his lungs anyway. 

Ryuji's weight pushes him down into the mattress, his mouth finding Ren's with bruising force and his fingers digging into Ren's ribs, creating new bruises to replace the ones that Ren can still feel fading from his skin. Ren grips back just as tightly, fingers twisting in the back of Ryuji's t-shirt and stretching the material until Ryuji yanks it off impatiently. Ryuji is burning hot under Ren's hands, corded muscle tense as steel cable, and the rough drag of his jeans against the inside of Ren's thighs nearly sends Ren's overstimulated body over the edge all by itself when Ren wraps his legs around. 

"Please," Ren murmurs when Ryuji breaks the kiss and sinks teeth into his shoulder instead, sucking a bruise that Ren feels down his spine. He tips his head back for more, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that red bursts across the backs of his eyelids. Ryuji's mouth slides to the hollow of his throat, wet and merciless. His fingers sink into the small of Ren's back, encouraging the arch of Ren's hips against the dangerous drag of his zipper. "Ryuji, _please._ "

They don't even get Ryuji's jeans the whole way off, just shoved down far enough for Ren to get two handfuls of Ryuji's ass, or Ren's glasses. The clunky frames dig into the bridge of Ren's nose and the side of Ryuji's cheek, lenses fogged from Ryuji's panting breath. He jerks them off with his hand wrapped around both their dicks, rough and fast, and Ryuji's hand isn't quite big enough to do it right, but it's callused and strong. Ren loves those hands wrapped around him just as much as he loves them wrapped around a bat or a pipe, loves it enough to thrust into the near-pain of it and spill all over both of them. The room spins sickeningly, but Ren's grip on Ryuji is tight enough to hold as reality tries to drain away from him for a dangerous few seconds. 

"Fuck, fuck," Ryuji groans, drawing Ren's focus. He lets go of their dicks so he can dig both elbows into Ren's mattress, caging him there, and grinds himself out into the slick mess of Ren's thigh. Even after he comes, he's still tense and trembling, hovering there with his weight heavy against Ren and his eyes squeezed shut. He's got a dark red mark across his cheek from Ren's glasses, and his mouth is slick and pink where it's hanging open. Ren could stare at him like this forever, could just stay right here in this bed and never get out, but that's not how time works. That's not how anything works. 

Vaguely, as he reaches up to slide gentle fingers into the hair matted down at Ryuji's temples, he wonders what it would be like to take that drug from the police station and then fuck Ryuji while high on it, all their pasts and presents and futures bleeding into each other while he can't stop true things from spilling out of his mouth. 

When Ren tugs gently, Ryuji collapses on top of him like his strings have been cut, burying his face in the curve of Ren's neck. He's shaking, maybe crying or maybe just coming down, but whatever it is, Ren holds him right there through it. He drags fingers through Ryuji's hair, the roughness of each curl against his fingertips, and then down the bumps of Ryuji's spine one by one by one, before starting over again. 

"Really need that bath," Ryuji grunts eventually, turning his face to the side and drawing a deep breath. "Promised I'd get you over there."

"No," Ren says. He's so warm and Ryuji is so heavy and if he just stays perfectly still nothing is wrong. "I want to stay here."

"Well, you're a fucking moron, so m'not gonna listen to _you_ ," Ryuji retorts. He peels himself away and stands, groaning, and then yanks Ren up too. He threatens to princess-carry Ren across the street buck-ass naked when Ren whines about dragging clothes back on and gravity. "Worst leader ever."

"Yes," Ren agrees. He holds Ryuji still by the shoulders, the warmest spot where their foreheads are pressed together. Ren closes his eyes and stills even his breath so he can hold steady for a few seconds at least, right here. Three or four heartbeats of this are all Ryuji can take before he's dragging them back into motion, but it's enough. 

They get across the street just before the baths close, so they have the place to themselves. It's for the best because Ryuji won't keep his hands off Ren, washing his hair and offering a hand into the bath, pressing their shoulders and hips together when they're sitting in the deep tub. Much like healing magic, the scorching water hurts in a good way, the heat sinking into Ren's bones and the new bruises scattered across his skin. He offers his hand above the water, palm up, and Ryuji grabs it to twine their fingers together, his fingers pressing down into the spaces between Ren's knuckles like he's trying to pop them. 

Ryuji fills up the empty, humid space between them with a winding story about going shoe shopping with Ann over the weekend, and how both of them thought the other was talking about buying a different kind of shoe. 

"So I bought the ones with the grip treads," Ryuji finishes. "I thought I'd shred the ultra-lights in like two runs. Ann bought the ones with the straps."

That's it, that's the end of the story. Ren, who has been waiting for the punchline for this story for ten full minutes, laughs so hard that he almost drowns sliding down against Ryuji's shoulder. 

"What?" Ryuji demands; Ren only laughs harder and slides down farther. "You fucking weirdo. Get out, you're all pink and shit, you're gonna pass out." 

"Carry me," Ren whines, flopping uselessly against Ryuji. Ryuji stands up, dunking Ren under the water unexpectedly, and Ren comes up spluttering, hair plastered down over his eyes. 

Ren still isn't sure he can sleep even when they're back in his bed, lights out except for the green of the glow stars he and Yusuke put up on the rafters. He aches from exhaustion, from phantom bruises and sex, but every time he starts to drift off the panic returns that he's not really where he is, that he's back in a cell, in the casino, trapped in a painting, wandering Mementos lost and low on magic. The whispers are back, his strained nerves creating shadows just in the corners of his vision where he's too tired to turn to look. 

_I'm right here_ , he has to keep reminding himself, one shaky breath at a time. He's in his bed, the roughness of the cheap sheets familiar, and he's warm and safe. He focuses on Ryuji pressed tight all along the length of Ren's back, spooning him into submission, clinging with arms around Ren's waist like he's a favorite stuffed animal Ryuji is worried about losing, breath hot and damp against the back of Ren's neck. Morgana is right here too, curled in the tiny space between Ren's stomach and the wall, still watching Ren through blue-slit eyes. 

"Can't sleep either?" Ren asks. 

Morgana flicks his tail, ears flat back. "Humans are really dumb. Maybe I don't want to be one after all."

"Yeah." Ren has just enough energy to move his hand the three centimeters to brush fingers through Morgana's belly fur. Morgana doesn't even bother to claw at him. "I know that feeling."

"I pretty sure you don't know _anything_ ," Morgana spits with quiet venom. " _Dormina_ ," he adds before Ren can argue, and velvet fingers of sleep slide up the back of his skull, so warm and so dangerous. His brain tries to panic his body into shaking it off, but can't, the spell muting the adrenaline into a spreading bonelessness. 

"Should've used _Lullaby_ ," Ren murmurs, using the last of his consciousness to knuckle the fur of Morgana's chest. 

This time Morgana does sink claws into Ren's wrist, but even the sharp pinpricks of pain can't keep Ren conscious. "Someone has to keep watch."

The last thing he sees is the glowing blue of Morgana's eyes before his own fall heavily shut. _Tomorrow_ he tries to say, tomorrow he's next, but sleep is already drowning him, dragging the words away as he sinks into the deep blackness of it, and if Morgana touches his cat's toe beans to Ren's palm for the _NEXT_ , Ren doesn't feel it, or anything else until morning.


End file.
